


I Put a Smell on You

by TigerShinigami



Category: Psych (TV 2006), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Friendship, Humor, Mystery, Police Procedural, Spooky, Supernatural Elements, Tacos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26727535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerShinigami/pseuds/TigerShinigami
Summary: A dead body with mysterious tattoos. Two suspicious yet handsome FBI agents helping with the case. And a rat lurking around the Psych office. (Not the figurative kind. A gross, literal one.)Shawn was worried they would miss Taco Tuesday.
Relationships: Burton "Gus" Guster & Shawn Spencer, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Henry Spencer & Shawn Spencer, Juliet O'Hara & Shawn Spencer, Juliet O'Hara/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

_ Santa Barbara - 1985 _

The blue-black of night was draped over the neighborhood, quiet save for the sound of crickets and summer cicadas. The night was windy with the cool sea air that was tinged with salt. A young boy walked on the grass carefully, his head turning this way and that way as he crept forward. He made his way into the backyard which he knew easily from memory. But during the night it was another place entirely, and he found it hard to remember where everything was. Another sudden breeze swept in, which caused the bushes and trees to rustle. The wind passed in a wave from one end of the yard to the other. 

The boy’s eyes continued to dart about as he strained to see what was around him, but the blackness was a solid veil that surrounded him on all sides that obscured all. He swallowed. 

Suddenly there was a sound, somewhere hidden behind the darkness. He snapped to attention in a futile attempt to see, to reassure himself. He gasped. His heart beat faster, his breath quickened. 

His feet seemed to fumble beneath him, suddenly foreign appendages he barely had control over as he managed to keep himself upright. He set off in a sloppy run across the yard. It wasn’t long before he arrived at a smaller building.  


His hand fumbled in the darkness for the doorknob, his breathing harder and louder as he tried to find purchase. With a hasty yank he pushed the door open and immediately slammed it shut behind him. The boy leaned forward, resting his forehead against the wood. His breathing finally began to slow. 

“Gus! What took you so long?”

Little Gus screamed. 

Shawn’s laughter sounded throughout the dark garage. He was sitting among the piles of boxes and equipment, lit only by a flashlight balanced on the floor in front of him. The light cut through the darkness, illuminating his face from below like a specter. He was wearing a blanket, paper star, and fishing rope fashioned in the shape of a hat on his head. In front of him was a large, thick book with yellowed pages that sat open. 

Gus turned around. “Don’t scare me like that, Shawn! You know I don’t like the dark!”

“Relax, Gus. I’m the one controlling the magic,” He smiled. 

Gus hesitantly stepped forward. “Why'd you call me here? What’s all this?”

“It’s my magic book and hat. What does it look like?”

Gus shook his head and backed away, barely an inch. “Don’t tell me that’s a spell book! You shouldn’t mess with things like that, that stuff is evil!”

“No, it’s not.  _ I’m _ the one controlling it.  _ You’ve _ got nothing to worry about,” Shawn grinned. 

The other boy straightened his shoulders, resumed his proper posture. But he was still shaking slightly, only the smallest bit, and enough for Shawn to notice. “Liar! You can’t do magic,” He challenged, his head sticking out now in defiance, chin jutting out and lips set in a line. 

Shawn raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” He challenged with a knowing smirk. He shifted his position on the floor and closed his eyes. “Oh, spirits! Pi-e lesu domine….”

Gus started to shake his head. “Shawn…”

“Don na ea-eis… requiem…”

“Stop it, Shawn! I mean it!”

“Pi-e lesu domine…”

Gus was shaking again now, his entire body shuddering in fear. But his eyes were wide, and he was unable to look away from Shawn no matter how much he wanted to. 

Shawn’s voice rose in volume and intensity and he continued the spell, faster and focused with each syllable. “Don na… Ea-eis… requiem!” 

His eyes flew open and he looked upwards, his arms quickly raised and outstretched in a single movement. 

Something moved in the darkness. Suddenly items were flying through the air on both sides; tools, bits of wood, nails, fish bait, all streaking across in the darkness on their own. They hovered along in vision dangling in mid-air of their own accord. One by one they faded from his view as they passed back into the shadows.  


Gus screamed, again. 

When Shawn looked down, Gus was gone. 

This would’ve been mysterious if it weren’t for the door behind him that was left wide open.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge shoutout goes to my amazing friend Russell for helping discuss and brainstorm some plot points of this story- You're the best!

Santa Barbara - 2008

Something was rotten in the Docks at Sandy Grove. The wood, specifically. This was problematic for boat docks, given the importance of keeping people out of the water and the nearby boats tethered. But it matched the neglected boathouse and the boats themselves that were kept there. Paint was chipped and rust formed like patchwork across many of the hulls. The boats varied in size and shape, as well as use, but there was a common theme of dull utility and practicality. No pleasure cruise would depart from there - unless the odd naive tourist counted. Unfortunately on that Thursday morning, something else was rotten in the Docks at Sandy Grove. A dead body, to be precise. 

It was found by two men making their way to their fishing boat who were hoping to catch tuna. Their day would instead involve calling the police and giving witness statements.

Shawn Spencer trotted along the nearby street, remnants of snow cone in hand. 

“Gus! What’s the hold up? Hurry up, man, we’re going to be late,” he said. 

“ _We’re_ going to be late? I was here twenty minutes early! You’re the one who decided to stop for snow cones on your way here.” Gus walked at a brisk pace alongside him as they made their way to the docks. 

Shawn followed, his steps languid, and shrugged. He bit off another piece of snow cone. “It was Tiger Blood Thursday, Gus. You know I can’t resist that. And besides, it was a long way. It’s a hot day, I have to keep up my fluids.”

“It was barely 20 yards! I could see you from across the street!” 

“No! It couldn’t have been… Was it?” Shawn said as he chewed on the flavored ice. 

“I saw you the entire time!” Gus said. 

Shawn tilted his head, pondering. “Agree to disagree."

Gus made a sour face, but it was gone soon enough.

They made their way past the decrepit boathouse and towards the docks. Officers and witnesses stood all over, with crime scene tape blocking access to one dock in particular. Detectives Juliet and Lassiter could be seen among them. 

Shawn grinned. “Hey, Jules!”

“Hi Shawn, Gus,” She smiled, then paused. “...Is that a snow cone?”

“Why, yes it is. I apologize for not getting you one, Jules.”

“No- That’s okay, I’m fine. Thanks, though.” She focused, all business once again. He managed to get a brief smile from her at least, which Shawn considered a win for the morning. 

“We’ve got a body that was found on one of the piers. No sign of ID. We were wondering if you might sense anything that could tell us more about what happened,” Juliet said. 

“Aw, Jules. If you wanted to see us, all you had to do was say so,” Shawn said. 

She gave the slightest shake of her head, but he noticed her fend off the barest twitch of the corners of her mouth. Not quite a win, but close. 

“Any signs of foul play?” Gus asked. “We don’t know for certain, but the situation is suspicious enough that we’re pursuing a full investigation. Two fisherman reported hearing someone take off in a boat moments before they stumbled upon the body. But since it was before dawn, it was too dark for them to make out anything. We noticed one of the boats seems to be missing- presumably by whoever tried to dump the body.”

They moved along the dock towards an outstretched pier where a body was covered by a black tarp.

Boats were lined up on either side in the water. As they walked, Gus visibly recoiled with a hand raised to cover his mouth and nose. “Th- The smell…” 

“Man, that nose of yours must be cranked up to eleven today.” 

“It’s the heat. Today’s been hotter than normal- it’s made a number of the officers uncomfortable as well- The smell, I mean,” Juliet said. “It’s pretty unusual… Lassiter thinks this might be cult related. As far as the cause of death, there isn’t anything we can tell yet. Hopefully the autopsy will answer that, but we thought you could sense something too.” 

“Unusual? Cult, you say?” Shawn was suddenly more interested. “Are there two small holes on the neck? Or the word ‘redrum’ written anywhere?”

Juliet rolled her eyes slightly, but once again Shawn spotted the faint tug of her mouth as she resisted a smile. Three for three. Not bad, Shawn thought. 

“Nothing that obvious. But the tattoos _are_ very unusual. It could be something.” Then she paused, her mouth slightly open as if the next words wouldn’t come. Conflicted, she finally said, “If I’m being honest… Something about this just gives me the creeps.” 

As they neared the body, she raised a handkerchief to cover her nose, and soon Shawn understood why. The smell hit him like a pack of unwashed dogs that ran through a slaughterhouse sprayed by skunks, with a hint of those white flower trees that bloom in the spring but smell bad when you walk past them. On a Monday, no less. 

“Holy… Mother Teresa!” Shawn pulled up his shirt to cover his nose and mouth, fighting the urge to gag. The remains of his snowcone would sadly go to waste. “That’s one bad smelling dude.”

Gus was physically pinching his nose shut with a grimace. He tried to speak, then closed his mouth firmly in a bid to protect himself from the smell.

“We don’t have much yet, but right now we think the time of death was about forty eight hours ago.”

A nearby officer pulled back the covering to reveal the body underneath. Jules really undersold the unusual nature of the body. There was enough going on that it took a little longer for Shawn’s skills to kick in and notice everything in full. “Could you take a step back, please? I will need my space to channel the spirits,” Shawn said mysteriously with a handwave for good measure. Juliet and the nearby officers took a step backwards, then once more. “Further,” He said. They complied. “Almost…” Another step. “There! Stay right there!”

Shawn and Gus were alone at the end of the pier, their backs turned to the body for protection. “Dude, this guy smells awful,” Shawn said, low enough that the officers couldn’t hear. “Even for two days… It’s like that time the Fish Shack tried to do breakfast and ordered _way_ too many eggs.” 

“That’s not eggs- that’s sulfur,” Gus noted. 

“Are you sure it’s not rotten eggs?” Shawn said. 

“I’m sure. Why would he smell like rotten eggs?”

Shawn considered. “Oh, I don’t know. Why did Kelsey Grammar sing about them?” 

“Those were scrambled eggs, Shawn. And it was a metaphor for the premise of Frasier,” Gus said drawing upon his trivia knowledge. 

“And yet we always lose at Trivial Pursuit,” Shawn sighed. 

“Sulfur is usually found in some volcanic processes, but sometimes used in chemical manufacturing.” 

“So… It’s not poisonous?”

Gus shook his head. They turned towards the body hesitantly, bit by bit, like a lawn sprinkler might rotate. Gus held his nose shut by pinching two fingers over it, but it was with great effort that he looked at the body and kept his composure. Mostly. 

With a squint of his eyes Shawn looked over the body. 

First, there were the tattoos- three as far as he could see. All of them circular, geometric, complex designs with smaller symbols scattered throughout and writings in another language. One of them was different and looked like a star in a flaming circle. The man looked to be in his late thirties- no, scratch that. Older than that, he still had a cell phone case clipped to his belt. The case was for an older phone, and not the latest model. Ears were pierced with studs (someone didn’t want to act his age) with older, simple clothes that looked well worn. His teeth were in dire need of a cleaning. Or… Any kind of care. The man wasn’t a smoker, surprisingly, and lacked the yellow-green hue. He was fairly pale from a lack of sunlight, yet there was a faint impression on his left ring finger. Just enough to show a ring was worn somewhat recently. His fingernails chipped on his thumbs and some fingers, but not others. Then, along his collarbone, was a reddish-pink rash on either side of his neck. His hair was longer than it probably should have been. Due for a haircut, yet apparently didn’t have the time, or the motivation. And he was in need of a shave… with at least three day’s worth of stubble before he died. Someone wasn’t taking very good care of himself. Marriage troubles. 

Shawn turned his attention to the area around the body, then the dock and nearby boats. With the amount of money (or lack thereof) spent in maintaining the place, it wasn’t surprising that a security system was one of many things the owners skipped spending money on. There seemed to be no gates for entering the docks, or any way of tracking people coming and going. Even his old man had better taste in boating arrangements, Shawn admitted only to himself. 

There were only half a dozen boat spots on the pier beyond the body- but only five boats, and a conspicuous empty space next to them. No signs of rope left at the tethering post, which meant it was untied and taken with whatever boat was docked there. Then, a few feet from the body, there was a hole in the wooden planks about a foot wide. 

“Any visions?” Juliet called from her place several feet away.

Shawn and Gus looked at each other, then back at the body (for good measure), then looked at Jules and the other officers. With a nod they strode back down the pier. Detective Lassiter had joined the other officers by then, and he stood with his arms folded while giving a contemptuous look. 

“Whew! That’s better,” Shawn said. He placed a hand to his right temple, his face the picture of focus and concentration. His voice became deeper, mysterious. 

“I’m starting to get something. I’m seeing…”

Dramatic pause.

“I’m seeing… dancing. Belly buttons.” He swayed from side to side and brought his arms up to chest level, in less of a dance and more of a motion with slight arm flailing. “I hear.. singing… From Bing…” Another arm flail, this time on the other side. “It’s… Christmas…!”

Juliet watched with a focused gaze, fully watching for clues to his performance. “Bing…?” She asked. 

Shawn grit his teeth and let out a yell. His dance ended abruptly with both hands clasped on his head. “Bing Crosby! And… Christmas! The Brady Bunch… Vacation! They’re on a vacation! Beaches! Sand! But the ground… Pele is _angry…_ ”

“Oh! Hawaii!” Juliet called excitedly. 

“Yes! Gah…!” Shawn puffed air into his mouth and cheeks to release a ‘Boom!’ sound and a rumble. His arms thrown upwards into the air, fingers twitching up above. “Volcanoes,” Gus said. “Pele is the Hawaiian God of volcanoes!” 

Shawn froze, his arms outstretched, and suddenly his arms were limp at his sides. He sniffed in an exaggerated, loud way. Then he sniffed again. It was a large sniff that contorted his entire face and scrunched up his nose. 

“You’re smelling something,” Juliet said. 

“Yes… Yes!” Shawn exclaimed. “Soot! No, wait. Lava! Wait…” He paused once more for good measure. “Sulfur! This man… he was around sulfur before he died. And that’s not all. I hear… wedding bells. There was a lover. A neglected lover. And a ring of power.” He paused to bring a hand to his temple. “It caaalls to us…” He almost whispered. 

“You know I don’t like your Gollum impression, Shawn!” Gus said sharply. 

“So, he might have worked around sulfur, and he was unhappily married,” Juliet said. “But we didn’t find a ring, so either he wasn’t wearing it when he died, or it was stolen off of him after. Possibly by the killer.” 

Shawn’s body shook and shuddered in a loose wave as if his muscles had all gone lax, before finally answering, “Yes!” He stopped, panting slightly. “That’s right- our victim was married. Whether the ring was stolen or left behind, I cannot say. Perhaps he had some Hobbit friends…?”

“And you just… _sense_ that he was unhappily married?” Lassiter said almost with a sneer. 

“Wait!” Shawn yelled abruptly. “I’m getting… Gah!” He jerked around violently. “This man didn’t merely die. No, someone was trying to hide it. They were… trying to move him! To unite him with Davy Jones’ Locker! But something’s wrong… The wood is weak. It’s unkind to them. His right foot… Yes, it’s gone through the wood, and he now walks with a limp. Then someone caught them in the act! But there was no time, they had to go and save themselves…!” He held a hand to his temple in mock pain and flapped his elbow back and forth like a dilapidated bird. He jerked to a stop, arm going limp and exhausted. “Whew!”

“Gee, you’re saying the dead body we found with two possible perps fleeing the scene might be a homicide?” Lassiter asked with an excited sarcasm. 

“Those are still some leads, though,” Juliet said. 

“O’Hara, get a copy of the records for the boats kept along this pier,” Lassiter said. He regarded Shawn and Gus with only the briefest look before walking off. 

"Really? That's it?" Shawn asked.

She gave them an apologetic look. “I’ve gotta go. Look- If you find out anything else, let us know. Hopefully we can ID the body from the prints. Either way they should have the autopsy done tomorrow.” She left to follow her partner. 

They watched her go. “Bye, Jules.” Shawn and Gus waved.

They began the trek back to the Blueberry. Shawn contemplated making another stop at the snowcone stand, while Gus unknowingly did the same. “Man, that guy was a walking geometry textbook,” Shawn said. ”I was having flashbacks to Ms. Perkins’ geometry class with all the lines and circles.” 

“You never paid attention in her class. You just drew robots in your notebook,” Gus accused.

“Yes, I did pay attention, thank you very much.” Shawn insisted defensively. There was something about the writing and symbols in the tattoos that seemed familiar. 

“Pig Latin,” Shawn declared. “It’s Pig Latin. That’s cultish, right?” 

Gus scoffed at the uncultured display. “That was _Latin_. _Pig_ Latin is what kids learn in fifth grade. And Latin isn’t that unusual, Latin phrases are used all the time. Maybe they picked words they liked.”

“Maybe,” Shawn thought. “Man, that guy sure was weird.”

“That’s an understatement. This whole thing gives me the creeps,” Gus said. 

Shawn felt a rumble in his stomach, which seemed decidedly Winnie the Pooh-like. “You know what I could go for? Some taquitos.”

“You know that’s right.”

\--- 

Three grande combos worth of taquitos, tortilla chips, rice, and beans were consumed within the next hour. Shawn and Gus arrived back at the Psych office with full stomachs. It was the best way to start a case- or anything, for that matter. 

“That’s ridiculous, Shawn. Everyone knows the Chupacabra never goes this far west,” Gus said as he sat at his desk. 

“Unless the weather’s acting up and it needs to look further for food. Everyone knows that!” Shawn made a beeline for a bag of chips that was left on the sofa. 

“I know Chupacabras, Shawn. And besides, the body still had blood in it. Chupacabras would drain all of it.”

Shawn thought for a moment. “This is true.”

Gus opened his laptop and began his search. “So where do we start? There’s got to be dozens of parlors in the greater Santa Barbara area. How do we know which one?” 

Shawn plopped down on the sofa with the bag of chips resting on his chest. He looked up at the ceiling, only half paying attention to his surroundings. “We start with the scariest looking ones first. The more Hot Topic apparel involved, the closer we are to the right one.” 

“Or we could start by researching those tattoos. Do you remember what any of them looked like?”

Shawn thought for a moment, squinting his eyes unconsciously in concentration. In his mind he could see the body from earlier, looking at the detailed images engraved on the skin. There were a lot of them, and it took more focus to pick out the details. “…Yeah. There was one…” The mental picture came into focus, one of the circles with smaller symbols scattered within it. Shawn sprung up from the sofa and walked over to the nearby clear board. Grabbing a bright green marker, he tried his best at recreating the image. 

“It was something like… this.” He added another symbol off to the side, still within the larger circle with crisscrossing lines. It almost formed a star, but not quite. “And this one here looked like the female symbol. Maybe he was trying to summon a lady.” Shawn chuckled slightly at his joke. 

“Summoning isn’t funny. That’s some pretty dark stuff.” Gus said soberly. 

“Oh, come on, Gus. Like you can summon something with a bunch of lines and squiggles.” Shawn continued adding details to the drawing as he remembered. Another line here, connect the points there… Add another small symbol in that spot, another bigger circle around everything else… Soon he had them drawn out as best he could match to the clear images in his head. The final tattoo was the most striking of them all, the five-pointed star that sat within a flaming circle. With the final strokes he finished drawing it on the board. 

“That’s a pentagram,” Gus noted. “Lassie might have been right. Maybe this _was_ cult related.”

“So they believed in a bunch of magic mumbo jumbo. And had poor taste in tattoos. It’s just another case, Gus.”

Gus shook his head, adamant. “This is serious stuff, Shawn. Summoning, latin, pentagrams- most spells are supposed to be in latin.”

“Maybe he decided to tattoo them on himself so he wouldn’t forget them. Like cheating during the spelling bee. Or a Chinese princess on her way to the matchmaker.”

Gus shook his head and looked back at the laptop screen. “Think what you want, but I know better than to mess with any of that stuff. ”

Shawn sighed. He looked at the drawn images again trying to parse them for clues. Nothing jumped out at him to indicate a location or person. Nay, not even a favorite color. Across the room Gus was still focused on his laptop, typing away and checking sites thoroughly.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m finding all the tattoo parlors in Santa Barbara. They might recognize who made the tattoos.” 

“Gus! Man…” Shawn grinned. “Look at you, our regular Ricardo Tubbs.”

“You know that’s right,” Gus nodded with a smooth confidence. “There’s about a dozen places in Santa Barbara. Assuming he didn’t get the tattoos done somewhere else.”

Shawn rounded the desk to look over Gus’ shoulder at the listings on the screen. He thought back to the body they found- the clothing, the man’s health, the chipped condition of his fingernails-

“Are there any shops located near an oyster bar?” 

Somewhat surprised, Gus checked the listings again. He looked at the map listings and ran a separate search for oyster bars. At least a dozen of them popped up- most of them on State St. 

“There!” Shawn shouted as he jabbed a finger forcibly towards the screen. “The Showy Hearts tattoo shop. I think we found our lead.” 

They looked at the website together, a dark-colored page with gothic and macabre imagery. It was poorly designed with bright cyan text over a detailed background of a brick wall. Animated gifs of talking skulls sat on either side of the page. “This looks like the kind of place to give someone a creepy tattoo,” Gus noted with a shudder. “And someone needs a better designer. Since when was cyan an acceptable title color? And Impact font? _Please._ ” 

“And it is there where our mystery man received his marks,” Shawn said in a dramatic, low voice. “The way to channel the evil spirits of the unknown.”

“It’s not funny, Shawn. Look at this,” He changed the browser window to another site that detailed occult and mystic symbols. “One of those symbols relates to demons. This is dark stuff. What if he was cursed and someone else tries to curse us? I’m not dying in a freak gardening accident, Shawn!”

“You won’t be the drummer from Spinal Tap, Gus.”

Shawn knew, without a doubt, there was nothing mystical about this case. There was no curse, no demon, and no magic involved whatsoever. Gus was not so easily convinced. His poor friend had trouble letting go of an idea once decided upon, and it looked like this John Doe and his geometry tattoos was no exception. But Gus would come to the right conclusion eventually- he just needed a push in the right direction. 

And, admittedly, Shawn found it fun to mess with him. 

“What's this? I’m… sensing something from the board…” He swayed on his feet and moved away from the desk in a jittering motion, finally leaning back towards the board. He jerked his hand back and forth before slamming it next to one of the circular symbols. “It’s… It’s summoning something, Gus! I can’t control it…!” 

“That’s not funny, Shawn! You know this stuff freaks me out! That’s not something you should joke about!”

“The spirits! They’re coming! They’re coming-”

Something moved at the other end of the office, in the kitchenette.

They froze. 

The color drained from their faces as they shot each other questioning glances. 

“…Did you hear that?” Gus asked, afraid of the answer. 

Shawn managed to scoff while ignoring the feeling of dread that began to creep over him. “It- It was just a noise, Gus. That doesn’t mean anything.”

They listened. Not a sound was made, and nothing moved. It was still and quiet within the office. They waited long enough until Shawn’s patience started to run out, which was about a minute. The tension began to ease. Then it was violently interrupted by a sliding and grinding sound that made one grit their teeth, then a clatter. Finally a loud ‘crash!’ was heard from the kitchenette, the unmistakable sound of porcelain breaking against the floor. 

They looked at one another in silent understanding, communicating wordlessly in a way honed only through years of friendship. Gus silently tilted his head to the side to indicate their plan. Shawn nodded. Gus grabbed a nearby broom to brandish as a weapon. Slowly, carefully, they began tip-toeing around the corner towards the kitchen. It was with great effort they kept from trembling. Gus had a grimace on his face, as if he expected to be attacked at any moment and chose to brace himself for the pain. Shawn felt the same. 

Shawn paused as he noted the broom in Gus’ hand. “What are you going to do, clean it to death?” He whispered. Gus waved away his comment, figuratively in his scoff, then literally with a quick motion of his hand side to side. 

They readied themselves just out of view of the kitchen. Braced up against the wall GI Joe style, they exchanged silent words once again. Gus looked at Shawn. Shawn looked at Gus. Shawn mentally prepared himself and tried not to see his life flashing before his eyes. Gus held out his fingers- three fingers. Two. One. 

In a surge of faux-courage the two rounded the corner to face the kitchen- and found a rat crawling on the counter next to the stack of plates. 

They screamed.

Clutching each other’s sleeves for support, they jumped backwards while yelling incoherently. Babbling, yelling, shrieking, they took a moment to add wailing to the symphony of surprise. Gus bolted for the front door and dropped the broom. Shawn quickly followed. 

They panted heavily from their positions on either side of the entrance. The four yard sprint was a lot to take on without warning. Neither of them were ready for the exercise. They needed a proper warmup for that sort of thing, Shawn thought. Gus leaned forward with his hands braced on his knees.

Shawn took the time to catch his own breath, the adrenaline subsiding and his mind clearing. “So… That was… Just a… rat…” He managed between breaths.

Gus nodded. “That… thing… was…” Another breath. “ ...Disgusting!”

“Okay, so…” Shawn paused and began to collect his thoughts. There was no real demon, obviously. Nothing was summoned and there was nothing supernatural about the situation. Granted, it was still terrifying to have rodents within the Psych office. But it was a very-natural situation nonetheless. Shawn shook his head- it was silly for him to entertain the possibility in the first place. That sort of thing didn’t exist, and he knew it. 

Gus was calming down as well, but only slightly. “I am _not_ going back in there. Not until that thing is gone.”

“I hear ya, buddy,” Shawn agreed. "Guess we'll just have to burn the place down.”

“Not with our lease. Our insurance wouldn’t cover it. Besides, if you did the dishes like you were supposed to, it wouldn’t have come in the first place.”

“I’ve had a lot on my plate, Gus. Figuratively speaking. The actual plates are sitting on the counter, of course,” Shawn said. Gus shot him a look in reply. 

The fact that the rodent was now safely trapped behind the door of the Psych office was enough to alleviate their fear. Rodents couldn’t get through human doors, that would be silly. 

Unless they had a Secret of NIHM situation on their hands- No, that was highly, highly unlikely. 

“We need to call an exterminator.” Gus took out his phone and started to dial a number. 

“Wait… I’ve got an idea. I know someone else we can call,” Shawn said.

Gus shot him an inquisitive look. “Like who?”

“I need your phone.” 

Gus held his phone slightly closer to himself. “Why? What’s wrong with yours?”

“I left it inside. Just- Let me borrow it.” Shawn made a move to take it. 

Gus took a step backwards. “Just tell me who to call, Shawn. I’ll make the call.” 

“You can’t give it to me for one second?”

“I said, _I’ll_ make the call,” Gus said firmly. 

“ _Fine_. It’s-“ Shawn was cut off by the sound of a nearby engine. It was the purr of an older car- the kind his old man would recognize, similar to the Model T’s from his youth, Shawn thought. A sleek, black vintage car cruised down the street in front of them. It rumbled and growled as it passed in the way only a pristine old car could. 

The moment passed, and Shawn and Gus turned their attention back towards one another. “Just call my dad. He’ll take care of it,” Shawn said.

Gus was skeptical. “He will? I don’t know if he’ll agree to help out that easily. You know what happened when you called him about that busted pipe.” 

“Gus, the man’s old. He needs mental stimulation. Remember what happened to the first bartender from Cheers? He only lasted a couple of seasons. And then Woody Harrelson came along, and no one remembers the old man anymore. “

Gus shook his head, dismayed for the man that everyone forgot. “And then it was Woody from then on out.” 

“Will you just make the call? I’m starting to get all sweaty out here.” 

“You think _you’re_ sweaty? At least you’re wearing short sleeves.” Gus pointed out as he dialed the phone. Shawn leaned forward in hopes of listening in. He heard it ring once, twice, three times, then five- It went to voicemail. 

“Hello, Mr. Spencer? This is Burton Guster. We’re here at the Psych office, and Shawn and I were wondering if you could help us with a problem- Please call us back when you have the chance.“


	3. Chapter 3

Dean Winchester gambled every day. 

It wasn’t the standard fare of blackjack and poker, although that was sometimes the case. Dean gambled with the most dangerous of things- his stomach. It was the consequence of a life lived on the road, in a country the size of the US. Life was a road trip, and that often involved long stretches of highways with few cities and fewer restaurants. 

The east coast wasn’t typically a problem. It was old enough that towns were built fairly close together. But further west, especially to the south, they could drive for hours and barely see a city. Out there, gas stations were havens for rest stops and food. They were convenient and cheap. Almost always they had some sort of fresh and hot foot on offer. Hot dogs, pigs in a blanket, burritos, and even pretzels were staples. They were all foods Dean loved, but buying them came with a certain risk. He’d become an expert at judging the quality based on what kind of display was set up. What kind of heat lamp was used. How old the food looked. He would gauge if it was a small-time store, or if it was part of a chain. Dean took all those things into account when he made his selections. His concern was two-fold, in that he thought both about quality of taste and the effects it might have on his body later. He called it the ‘Dean System’. But only to himself. 

Despite his vetting, it was a gamble to eat food from these places- every time. It was rare for him to lose. He prefered to think that his body had grown stronger and resilient to the food he ate over the years. It would take a lot for him to _not_ buy the hot dogs that sat under the heat lamp for five hours, using the metal tongs that had a suspicious black buildup on them. It didn’t matter how dirty the counter was, or that the hallway leading to the bathroom looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. The attendants always seemed to be named Carl, or Wanda. Dean wondered why there was always a Carl working at every other gas station they stopped at. Or, at least it seemed. And Carl always looked depressed. 

His younger brother Sam was far more discerning, but in different ways. Sam looked for the cleanliness of the building, how kept it was, how reputable the establishment looked. He focused on sanitation and the condition of the bathroom. It wasn’t uncommon for him to complain about it when they met back at the car. For him, food was a last resort if there was even the possibility of an actual restaurant within the next three hours. He had standards for what he would allow himself to eat, and the cheap, questionable fare at gas station rest stops rarely met them. The Quick Trip didn’t specialize in salads with low-fat dressing. What health-centric foods on offer were still suspect, even packed in plastic and sitting in neat rows on shelves. Wanda didn’t care for answering nutrition questions on the foods that arrived on a truck two days ago.

Even as they drove through cities and stayed somewhere for a case, they rarely had time for a proper meal. When they _did_ have restaurants to choose from, it was a matter of time versus availability, and it was rare they had time to sit down and fully enjoy it. Dean longed for a piece of pie, homecooked, on a red plaid tablecloth with a dollop of whipped cream. He liked to dream of it from time to time. 

One of these days, he thought. He would finally get that pie. Until then, he would make due with gas stations and drive-thrus. 

Unfortunately for Dean, on that particular Thursday, he had gambled once again. And lost. 

His body was angry with him that day. 

Dean stumbled gingerly out of the motel bathroom for the upteenth time. With a groan he lay down on his bed.

From his position at the small table, Sam looked up from his laptop. “Feeling any better?” He asked. 

“No,” Dean said with a grunt. 

Sam shook his head. “That’s what happens when you eat at a place called ‘Tacos R Us’. ”

“Shut up,” he grumbled. 

They had finished a job in nearby Bakersfield tracking down a spirit in an old tavern. It wasn’t a complicated job, but they wanted something simple now and again. Fighting demons and having cryptic conversations about evil armies of hell had gotten very old, very fast. Sometimes you just needed a body to salt and burn. It was nice and simple. Now that the case was finished, Dean insisted they stay closer to the California coastline. He gave no explanation to Sam other than a vague comment of ‘taking it easy for a little bit.’ This would be a nice sentiment, if it weren’t for the fact that Dean had mere months to live before he would be torn to shreds by invisible dogs from hell.

It was unfortunate, to say the least. 

Over the past year Dean had waffed between acceptance of his fate and restlessly searching for a way to change it. Right then, the former was true. There were a number of things Sam suspected were part of Dean’s unwritten bucket list of things to finish before he died. He never said as much out loud, but Sam knew. He knew enough to see that stopping at the ‘World’s Largest Ball of String’ attraction wasn’t a mere coincidence of their route.

Sam sometimes had trouble uncovering his brother’s secrets, but he wasn’t an idiot. 

Now, they would be taking a vacation- a normal one. Sunny beaches and girls in bikinis easily fit Dean’s idea of how to spend a good time before he died. On one hand, Sam didn’t want to waste any time in continuing his fervent search for something, anything, that could save his brother. 

On the other hand, Sam was tired. And his feet hurt. 

They had checked into a motel on the north-east side of Santa Barbara. For the price, they were nowhere near the ocean or beaches. It was slightly run down, small and cramped. It was even smaller than their usual fare- cheap options were few when visiting a popular beach town. And in California, everything was expensive. But it was in a beach town nonetheless. An actual, regular, vacation destination. 

Sam had visited parts of the California coast before, but not to Santa Barbara proper. Stanford, where he had studied briefly, was at least a six hour drive away, and there were a multitude of more attractive vacation spots for students to visit on the weekends. He’d done research into it himself years ago when he wanted to take a special trip with his girlfriend Jess. They ended up at a vineyard upstate that offered dancing classes to go with wine tasting.

Sam shook himself from his thoughts, all too mindful of how quickly they could draw him in. Thinking of Jess always seemed to do that. Even nearly three years after her death. 

Across the small room, Dean laughed at the television. “Hey, they’re showing Mac and Me.”

Sam frowned, giving his brother a questioning look. 

Dean glanced at him expectantly, raising a brow. “You know- Mac and Me? That terrible E.T. ripoff with the McDonalds crap?” 

He stared and shook his head. 

Dean scoffed. “Man, you gotta get a life.”

Sam paused, only to overcome his disbelief. “Oh, really? Because I don’t know some obscure movie?”

“Yeah. I bet you wouldn’t know Highlander from Braveheart,” Dean said. It was dismissive- and also a challenge. 

“I’ve seen Braveheart- and why does it matter?” 

“Oh yeah? Name one person,” he smirked. 

Sam shook his head and redirected his gaze at his laptop screen. “I’m not doing this.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, because you know you’d lose.” 

He turned to level an even stare with his brother. “Mel Gibson.”

Dean scoffed. “That was easy. Name someone else.” 

“Fine. William Wallace.” 

Dean frowned in confusion. “Who?” 

Sam let out an amused laugh, though he wasn’t surprised. “William Wallace? Mel Gibson’s character? The guy who inspired the whole movie, who led the rebellion against Scotland’s English rule?” 

Like a child who failed a math test, Dean recoiled and scoffed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“William Wallace. The real person from history- the movie’s based on a true story, Dean. Did you not know that?”

Dean stared for a moment, his mouth partially open and yet with nothing immediately to say. “Yeah, well… At least I’m not nerdy like you.” 

He smirked. “Says the guy touting his Braveheart trivia.” 

“Hey,” Dean said, finger raised and pointed for emphasis. “Don’t you diss 90’s action flicks.” 

Sam gave him a look that was both pitying and mocking at the same time. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” He turned back to the laptop screen, then had another thought. “You know the Titanic’s also a true story, right?”

Dean scoffed, offended. "Of course I do!” Suddenly he muttered a curse, and rose from his position on the bed to carefully rush to the bathroom. 

Sam winced. "Are you sure you don't need me to go to the store?" He called, hoping it could be heard through the bathroom door. 

There was a muffled ‘No!’ from the bathroom. 

Sam had offered more than once in the past hour, noting the closest drug store and anything that might have helped his brother. Dean had refused, stubborn, and insisted he’d be fine. Sam fought the urge to go anyway to get Gatorade and medicine. He shook his head in frustration, finding he was too tired to play another round of ‘Is my brother being honest with me’ and the energy it took. 

It was frustrating how often he dwelt on his brother’s situation, which always led to him being angry. Angry at Dean, angry at himself, angry at everything that drove them into the situation in the first place. With a shake of his head, he busied himself with his laptop once again. There was a possible lead that might be helpful in saving his brother. He would focus on that, and on what he actually _could_ do. 

\---

The ‘Showy Hearts’ tattoo parlor sat in an unexpected location between an oyster bar and a cat-themed tea party cafe, which offered themed parties for young girls and their friends. The cafe, that was. The tattoo parlor catered to a slightly different clientele. The outside was painted a dark grey and featured images from a deck of cards in the windows. The colors were dark, desaturated, and worked together to bring a sense of foreboding and hopelessness. Black curtains hung in the windows, which lent an air of mystery and secrecy to the parlor. 

“Phew,” Shawn said in awe from their position on the sidewalk. 

“All those dark colors, in Santa Barbara? Good luck with those air conditioning bills,” Gus said. 

“I feel like Gyro-captain will come flying down for us, at any second,” Shawn said. “I get to be Max!” He quickly claimed.

“You always get to be Max,” Gus complained. 

Neither of them moved from their spot on the sidewalk. 

“If you’re Max, then you get to go first,” Gus said with a smug and victorious look. “I’ll go after you.”

Shawn guffawed and chuckled. “No, Gus. The Gyro-captain would go first so he could scope it out. Have you even _seen_ the movie?”

Gus nudged Shawn with his elbow. “Does it _look_ like I have a gyrocopter? I’m not going in first. You go first.” Another nudge, which bordered on a jab. 

Shawn nudged him back with his own elbow. Gus elbowed him in return. Shawn tried to shrug it off, then roughly tried to push Gus using his shoulder and urging him forward. Gus fought back, trying to do the same. They went back and forth, both of them escalating until they lost patience. 

“Fine,” Shawn said definitively. “We’ll go in together, okay?”

Gus was the picture of pleased, reveling in his success. “Agreed.”

They marched up to the parlor doors side by side. Shawn tried to hang backwards discreetly. Gus noticed immediately, and pulled him forward again with a rough jerk of his arm. 

The inside was as macabre as the outside, but with a gothic flair. Example images of tattoos, posted on a large board, were filled with dark and sinister pictures. Plastic skulls adorned the columns that lined the sides of the main room. The two men stood out in particular with their brightly colored shirts, which shone like beacons in the otherwise drab and nearly colorless room. Shawn briefly wondered if anyone in the room would need sunglasses. 

It was the right place. 

A woman was leaning over the front counter with a bored expression. She matched the rest of the store with her black lipstick, gelled hair, an array of dark tattoos and her nose pierced in three places. After seeing them, she watched them curiously. “Can I help you?”

Shawn stepped up to the desk. “Yes. I’m Blood Dharma, the psychic medium. This is my assistant, Hoodlum Mah’Sim Sim Salabim. His family is originally from Arabia.” Gus gave a suave, confident nod at the clerk. 

“Hello,” Gus said smoothly with a look that could make a woman swoon. 

“First of all, do you have any My Chemical Romance shirts?” Shawn asked. The woman stared at him, confused. “Second, we’re looking for some tattoo work. Not just any tattoo work, mind you, I have very specific needs as a psychic. My skin is very sensitive. And the vibes…” He closed his eyes in a bid to exude as much mystery as possible. He took a deep, slow breath, before exhaling in a dramatic fashion. “… Must be one with my Chi, and my soul.”

“He has a very sensitive Chi,” Gus added. “And he’s very particular about the tattoos he needs. He has very specific ideas.”

The woman stood up a little straighter, attentive. “Oh yeah? What kind are you looking for? Do you have any already?”

“I do, sometimes,” Shawn stated before quickly changing topics. “I’m curious, has anyone here done anything like this before?”

Gus pulled forward a piece of paper with a somewhat crude drawing of one of the victim’s tattoos. He handed it to the clerk. The clerk looked closely at the picture, nodding with recognition. “Oh yeah, we get ones like that once in a blue moon. The last one was a while ago though, not sure when it was.” 

“Do you know if the artist is someone here?” Gus pressed. 

The woman looked at him doubtfully. “I thought you said you were… psychic.”

“I am, but the spirits… they come and go. I really can’t control it,” Shawn said with a small chuckle. 

“He’s having a down period right now,” Gus explained. 

The woman shrugged. “I guess you’re looking for Big Louie. He takes on jobs like that.” She nodded in the direction of one of the tattoo chairs. “But it’s too bad, he’s called in sick the past couple of days.”

That piqued their interest. “Has he, now?” Shawn asked, while eyeing Gus with an unspoken understanding. “Is there any way we could get his name? I would like to… meditate over my decision.” 

The clerk shrugged, clearly not concerned. “Sure, I guess. It’s Louis Verplank. Dunno if he’s actually sick or not, he just called out of the blue a couple of days ago and said he wasn’t feeling well. He seemed fine the day before.”

“Well, you know artists. They’re like talented children, with their ups and downs…” Shawn spoke with faked wisdom. Gus was not impressed. 

“Is it normal for him to miss work?” Gus asked.

She shrugged. “Not really.”

“Curious…” Shawn said. He turned around, and discreetly nudged his head, pointing with his eyes in a way only Gus could see. 

“Excuse me,” Gus said, stepping forward to get the woman’s full attention. “What kind of disinfectant do you use?” He began to ask for more information, expertly keeping the woman fully engaged. 

Shawn took the chance to cast a quick glance down at the desk. In that moment, he noticed a list of employee phone numbers taped alongside the inside lip of the desk- and noticed the number for Big Louie. 

“Thank you for your help,” Gus offered politely to the clerk.

“Yes… May your days be filled with good lunch, and good fortune.” Shawn said with gravitas, placing both hands before him and bowing. 

“He means good _luck_ and good fortune.” Gus hastily added. 

“I meant what I said.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“You will learn in time, my Arabian friend.” Shawn led them out of the parlor before Gus could counter. They made their way down the sidewalk and back to the Blueberry. “I’ve heard it both ways.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, Shawn. Why would you wish someone good lunch and good fortune? Luck and fortune go together. _Lunch_ is a completely different thing. It’s like wishing someone ‘peace on earth and good night’. It doesn’t work.”

“Are you telling me you _wouldn’t_ want someone wishing you a good lunch? I know I would,” Shawn said.

Gus gave him a look. “Fine. You can wish someone a good lunch, but not with good fortune. So did you get anything?”

“Gus,” Shawn started in an exaggerated but playful tone, “Of course I did!”


	4. Chapter 4

The printer was out of toner. This usually would have been a minor inconvenience, but instead served as the latest in a string of insurmountable obstacles in Detective Carlton Lassiter’s day.

He stared at the small display on the machine with a disgusted expression. He glared at it, as if the mere intensity of his look could bully the machine into doing as he asked.

It did not. 

Carlton stood there for another moment as he weighed his options. First, he wanted to throw the worthless item on the ground and kick it multiple times. Another option was lifting it up and tossing it out of a window. Neither option would solve the problem of ink, but it would alleviate his sour mood. Somewhat. 

“Oh, for crying out loud…” He grumbled. His eyes shot up to scan the nearby hallway and the people walking there. Like a bird of prey, he watched for the next innocent victim that would happen to be in his line of sight. It was officer Buzz McNab. 

“You! McNab!”He ordered, and pointed a finger for emphasis. “Get over here. Get this thing working again.”

McNab stopped abruptly and looked up from the file he was reading. “Well… It’s just that-”

“Now!” Lassiter barked.

McNab hesitated, still, torn between his current task and the pressure of helping Lassiter. But then he saw the expression on Lassiter’s face and knew his life was in imminent danger. “Yes, sir!” He suddenly said with enthusiasm.

Lassiter stomped over to his desk and sat in his chair. He stared at the computer monitor while his breathing came out in small puffs that were not unlike a bull preparing to charge. 

“Carleton,” Detective Juliet O’Hara said as she neared. “You need to calm down.”

He looked sharply at her. “What does it _look_ like I’m doing?” He said. 

“It’s just that… I know it’s been frustrating lately. But it’ll get better, you’re just… in a slump.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t get _slumps._ I get _delayed_ while in the process of closing a case.”

She held up her hands defensively to placate him, a sympathetic expression on her face. “Okay, okay. I get it. Maybe things didn’t go so well with the drug bust. Or the black market ring.”

“Don’t forget the bank fraud,” McNab chimed in from the copier in a far too cheerful tone. 

Juliet smiled out of polite reflex, but it was soured. “Thank you,” she said with the tendrils of sarcasm firmly gripped around her words. McNab nodded appreciatively. 

“We had them,” Lassiter asserted. “We knew where they were. We knew _when_ they would be there. We knew exactly when and where they were conducting their little drug operation. So tell me, O’Hara, why is it that when we showed up- they were _nowhere_ to be found?” The sarcasm rolled off of him in waves. 

“Maybe we didn’t act fast enough,” Juliet said, calmly thinking aloud. “If we were even a few minutes off, it’s possible they could have bailed fast enough before we even got there.”

He stared at his computer monitor. For a moment, Juliet wondered if he was going to hit it. 

“I don’t get in slumps,” he almost snarled at the screen. 

“You can’t be on a roll all the time, Carleton. It happens to everyone. Yes, even you,” she said the last words quickly before he could protest as she knew he would. He reminded Juliet of a child, pouting, frustrated that he lost his favorite toy. It was an unfair comparison, she thought, but the resemblance was striking. Especially to her young nephews.

“We’ll work through it again,” she offered helpfully. “Look at it from another angle. Maybe there’s something we missed.”

He stopped to think, and his mood seemed to lower from a boil to a simmer. “Okay,” he said. Carleton nodded slightly. “Okay,” he said again, this time with confidence. “We’ll work it again.”

Juliet smiled encouragingly. She mentally congratulated herself- until he stood abruptly and shouted at a nearby officer for wearing shoes that were out of protocol, but only slightly. She winced. 

“The printer’s back up!” McNab said. 

“Maybe that John Doe case will be an easy one,” Juliet said helpfully. “Though we’re still waiting on the results,” she said. Her optimism faded in favor of concern. “Is it me, or is that whole thing really… creepy? Have you dealt with anything like this before?”

He stopped to think. “Once. There was a group who burned the trophy displays at the senior rec center. Said they had to burn them or else we’d have a drought or some nonsense.”

She leaned forward slightly, jerking her head forward in interest. “Really? Were they part of a cult, or something?”

“No,” he said sharply. “They were a bunch of no-good teens bored over summer vacation. Said they were the ‘Cult of Up-dog.’” 

Juliet considered carefully, mentally sounding out the name once, then twice. “So, when they said who they were, and you asked them…”

“Bunch of juvenile hooligans,” he grumbled. “Why can’t they find something better to do than destroying synchronized swimming trophies?” He looked at her sharply, as if she were personally responsible for the widespread decline of society’s youth and the rise in ADHD. 

“So, you haven’t had a case like this before? One with possible occult connections?”

“You don’t need to know any of that to solve a case, O’Hara. Just stick to the facts,” he said. 

She folded her arms, placing her hands over her biceps in a sort of self-hug. “I don’t know… Something about this kind of thing really gives me the creeps. You really don’t find this case the _least_ bit creepy?”

“No, because none of that mumbo-jumbo is real,” he said mockingly, like it was obvious. 

She nodded. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” 

\---

A quick check in the phone book was enough for Shawn and Gus to locate ‘Big Louie’ (or Louis Verplank, as he was legally known) at his home in Santa Barbara. It was a small house sandwiched between two other, nearly identical, homes on either side. The yard was approximately the size of a postage stamp. It was unkempt, the grass allowed to grow freely. Barely visible were metal yard ornaments and wind catchers nearly lost in the wilds of the tall growth. Along the eaves of the house, just under the roofline, were bundles of what looked like small branches and bunches of leaves. They were tied haphazardly to the gutters. 

Gus pulled up to the curb in the Blueberry and placed the car in park. He leaned forward on the steering wheel while eying the house warily. “I already don’t like this, Shawn. This place gives me the creeps.”

Shawn nodded, sensing the same trepidation from him a hundred times over the years. “I hear ya, buddy. But this guy is our only lead. Dude, there’s no way that’s a coincidence he’s been skipping work when that John Doe was supposed to have been killed.”

Gus only grew bolder in his defiance. “Exactly. What if this guy’s the murderer? And he gets upset knowing we’re onto him?” 

Shawn shook his head- also very familiar with his best friend’s penchant for superstition. “Don’t be such a Robin’s Egg Crayola Crayon, Gus. Besides, I have an idea of how to talk to him.”

Gus shot him a suspicious look, but it seemed to calm him, at least slightly. “Such as?”

“I believe he’ll be receptive to someone of the… psychic arts.” He waved his hand through the air, then rested it at his temple with a flourish. 

They made their way up to the front door, picking their way through the yard and (what remained of) the sidewalk, traversing the minefield of items hidden in the grass. Shawn spied what he thought was at least one discarded chia pet planter that was now left to rot away. To become one with nature from whence it came, he thought. 

Shawn walked several steps. He was within three feet of the front door when he noticed Gus was no longer beside him. Or behind him, for that matter. Instead he stood stubbornly on the sidewalk. Shawn gestured and urged him forwards. Gus shook his head. Shawn continued to plead and nag. The argument turned into unintelligible bickering for several seconds before Gus relented- carefully picking his way to the door. 

They rang the doorbell.

They waited patiently, only to realize nothing was happening. The two shrugged. It was Gus’ turn to ring the bell that time, as Shawn had gone first. Begrudgingly he pressed the button in a way that minimized physical contact with the building. 

Nothing was happening- outwardly, anyway. Shawn could have sworn he heard movement from within the small house. A look from Gus said he noticed it as well. 

“Hello?” Shawn called out. “Is anyone here? I’m sensing bad vibrations…” He called loud enough to be heard through the door. 

“Not the James Marshall kind,” Gus said. 

“And yet we would embrace his techno-beats wholeheartedly,” Shawn said. 

“No one’s home!” A voice timidly called. Then they heard a loud curse. But not a mystical one- one too vulgar for repeating in a PG-13 rated story. 

“There’s no need to be alarmed,” Shawn said in his performative voice. He raised a hand to his temple in his signature psychic pose. “I’m a psychic, I sensed I was in need here. I’m getting a name…” Pause for dramatic emphasis. Wait for it...

“Louie- but not small Louie. Nay- the opposite! Tom Hanks! Fortune tellers! Keyboards and age-appropriate sleepovers! Big Louie, the spirits have led us to you!”

They waited in anticipation, both leaning forward towards the door straining to hear a response. 

“I’m not sure he heard you,” Gus said. 

The door was jerked open no more than an inch, causing the hinges to squeak. In the small gap between the door and frame appeared an eye, which was presumably on a face that was attached to a person. A very shy one, apparently. 

“You know me? You know who I am?” A voice asked tentatively from behind the door. The lone eye was wide, shaking. 

“I only know what the spirits tell me,” Shawn said. “There are things I know, yet things I don’t. Like how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop. Or what products David Bowie used to style his hair.”

“We’re here to help,” Gus added. 

There was a pause. Shawn and Gus leaned in as they strained to hear a reply. 

“You’re… a Psychic?” The voice said, curiously. 

“Indeed I am. My name is Goody Madmartigan, and this is my assistant, Bluespire “The Raven” Willow,” Shawn said. 

“Hello,” Gus said.

There was a sigh of relief, and the door opened fully to reveal a middle-aged man standing at the threshold. He had long black hair that was tied in a loose ponytail, but was oily and unkept. He probably hadn’t washed it for some time. Tattoos, many similar to the kind seen on the John Doe, covered most of his arms and continued under his short sleeves. His clothing was a mixture of blacks, whites, and grays- with bits of leather, and around his neck hung half a dozen silver and stone pendants with various symbols. Most curiously, the man was not large at all- rather, he appeared fairly skinny, and short. 

“Boy, am I glad you’re here,” Big Louie said. 

“ _You’re_ ‘Big Louie’?” Gus asked while shooting a skeptical look at Shawn. Shawn reciprocated. 

“That’s right,” He said. It took a moment for him to sense their hesitation. “I lost a lot of weight last year,” he explained. “I used to be a lot bigger. I joined Weight Watchers.”

Shawn and Gus let out an ‘oh’ of understanding. “Good for you,” Gus said. 

“May we come inside?” Shawn asked. 

“I could use the help of a psychic right now,” Not Very Big Louie said. He moved aside and fully opened the door. “I don’t know what to do! I’m- I’m kind of freaking out.”

As they entered the house, there was a thick line of a white powdery substance that lined the floor just inside the doorway. 

“Careful,” Louie said hastily. “Don’t break the salt line.” 

The two of them eyed the salt strangely as they stepped over it. They entered the foyer, which was also part of the small living room and the hallway. The room was full, to say the least. If it were a hotel, the ‘No Vacancy’ sign would have been long illuminated and burnt out. Strange items were mounted all over the walls as well as scattered about on bookshelves and tables. They looked to be pendants or charms similar to the ones around Louie’s neck- but in some places, they looked almost like small bones. There were rocks of various colors and types as well that were reminiscent of a cavern gift shop. 

Gus turned to the left and visibly recoiled- only to realize it was a taxidermied deer head that hung on the wall. There was also what looked to be a mountain lion and quail on the opposite wall, as well. 

Tapestries with intricate woven symbols hung on some walls, similar to the strange tattoo designs they researched earlier. Interspersed with the mysterious imagery were metal crosses. 

The room would have been foreboding, the sort that would give a visitor a sense of dread in the pit of their stomach that couldn’t be logically explained, if it weren’t for the bright pink floral couch sitting in the middle of the floor.

That, and the kitten calendar that hung in the corner. 

“Wow…” Shawn let out. “Hey, don’t you have that same calendar in your office?” He asked while turning to Gus. 

“It’s a bit of a mess, I apologize,” Louie said. “Can I get you anything? Rosemary tea? Maybe some vervain? Wait… You probably knew I was going to ask that,” Louie said with a sheepish smile. 

“Indeed I did,” Shawn said. He fought the urge to ask for chocolate Ovaltine and cookies, although the thought was appealing. Louie didn’t seem to be a dangerous person, if a bit odd. 

“Nothing for us, thank you,” Gus said, and he shot a look at Shawn. “How about you tell us what’s bothering you?” Gus said. 

“Yes, I’m sensing… Something has happened. Someone you know… a tragedy,” Shawn said. 

They moved to sit on the bright pink couch and a nearby reading chair. 

“Well…” Louie started. He paused to collect his thoughts, seemingly unsure of where to begin. “It all started at our weekly meeting. It was just like always. We arrived, said hello to Christine-”

“Christine? Is she a lady friend?” Shawn said with a sly smile. 

Louie frowned. “No… She’s a cursed doll.” 

Shawn and Gus exchanged a look.

“Really?” Shawn asked. 

“Is that so?” Gus asked. 

“It is. But that’s not important- You see, at the meeting the other night… Something terrible happened.” 

The two found themselves leaning forward slightly in anticipation. 

“We have these meetings- the Society for Paranormal and Supernatural Enthusiasts. For anyone who’s interested in things not explained by regular science- things like magic and spirits, creatures, monsters, that sort of thing. We meet once a week to discuss and be with like-minded people.”

“What is that? SPSE? Spee-cee… Spea sea...” Shawn sounded the letters aloud. 

“It’s not a very good acronym,” Louie admitted.

“Rough on the tongue,” Gus said.

“Anyways, the meeting this week, something was different... Something terrible happened.”

There was a pause as they waited for him to continue. 

He didn’t. 

“...Yes, I believe you mentioned that,” Shawn finally said. 

Louie nodded, as if working to build courage up within himself. “It was my friend, Matt. We’d seen each other every week for the past three months. But this time, while we were there, he disappeared somewhere. I went to go looking for him, even though we’re not supposed to wander the building. Safety and all.”

“You can’t wander around?” Gus asked.

“It’s obviously because of the dangerous magic. And the ghost of Ricardo Montalbon, I imagine,” Shawn said. 

“Ricardo Montalbon is still alive,” Gus said in an inpatient tone. 

“Is he?” Shawn asked. 

“He’s right- about the magic, that is. There are a lot of mystical artifacts in our collection, and some of them have dark magic," Louie said. “Christine can be temperamental, especially! But Matt wasn’t worried about that. He’d disappear sometimes. He always said he needed to walk around often because of his stiff legs. Usually he would come back for group communal discussion, but he didn’t this time. ” 

There was another pause. 

They waited for him to continue, only to be met with another long, awkward silence. 

“And?” Gus asked. 

“Can you just… tell us the whole story, in one go,” Shawn said rather than asked, his tone impatient.

Louie nodded. “Right- Sorry. So I went looking for him. I was in a secluded hallway just outside of the meeting room, when I saw him. I knew right away something was very wrong. He was stumbling around, all stuttering and trying to speak. But he couldn’t! Then he fell forward, and I barely caught him. He managed to jerk away from me and fumble into the main room. Everyone saw him. And then… he fell over. Dead.

“Right after that, our leader arrived to check on him- But it was too late,” Louie shook his head. “Too late… Poor Matt.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Gus said. 

“Yes… And this Matt, what would his last name be?” Shawn asked. 

Louie frowned, then narrowed his eyes slightly. “Aren’t you supposed to be psychic? How come you don’t know all of this already? My regular Psychic would.”

“I am at the whim of the spirits. It’s outside of my control,” Shawn said mystically with a hand hovering near his brow. “I know that you work at a tattoo parlour, and that you gave Matt a tattoo. I’m seeing… a circle. A circle of fire! And… a star?” He titled his head in a show of curiosity. 

“That’s right!” Louie said, his energy and excitement returning. “Okay- Yes. That’s right. Wow, I knew you were the real thing.”

“Of course I am,” Shawn said smoothly. 

“That’s how we met, actually,” Louie said. “He came in asking for certain tattoos- Magic ones, the kind I have experience with.” He smiled and pointed at his left arm and the mystical looking tattoos that covered it. “I’m the expert down at the shop, and I realized he had an interest in the same kind of things I did. I invited him into the group.” The smile fell from his face. “Poor Matt.” 

“What did you say his name was?” Gus asked with a raised brow. 

“Maxwell. His name was Matthew Maxwell,” Louie said firmly. Then he leaned forward towards them with a sober expression, his eyes darting left then right as if to check for anyone listening in. “There was one other thing,” he said. “Just before he died… He gave me something, said to keep it safe.” 

“Did he say to keep it secret, and was it a ring?” Shawn asked. Gus nudged him with his elbow.

“What did he give you?” Gus asked.

Louie looked around them once more for good measure, despite the fact that they were alone in the room with taxidermied animal heads. “This,” he said. He reached down his shirt to fish for it, a pendant of some kind on one of the many necklaces around his neck. He pulled out a small white, fuzzy object no longer than four inches in length. It was connected to a short loop, and it dangled in the air between the three of them.

“Is that a rabbit’s foot?” Gus asked, his brow furrowing. “Yes. I don’t know why it was so important to him, but I’m not taking any chances. This won’t leave my sight. I’ve promised that to his spirit,” Louie said. He was grave, sober. 

They watched the furry item that hung in the air. Gus made a disgusted face that was somehow wary and fearful all at once. He then leveled a stern look at Shawn, which he understood to mean Gus was displeased at this turn of events, the idea of dealing with a curse, and the very idea of taxidermy in general. Gus hated the practice. 

Shawn wondered what sort of animal head he would chosen to have in the office, if he could. Perhaps a jackalope? Or an albino squirrel?

“Right...” Shawn said in a less than confident tone. 

Before they could say or do anything more, Louie quickly withdrew the rabbits foot and tucked it safely down his shirt, hidden away with his other necklaces. 

“Do you have any idea what killed him?” Shawn asked. “The spirits… They won’t speak to me, not yet. But they say I must help you.” He held a hand to his temple, twiddling his fingers in a mysterious way. 

“Well…” Louie started. He paused, a hesitant and fearful expression coming over his face. He opened his mouth and closed it again, working up the courage to speak.

Shawn and Gus leaned forward, listening. 

“He was cursed!” 


	5. Chapter 5

There was a beat as they absorbed Louie’s words, fully, like an orange towel featured on a daytime TV infomercial that could clean up red wine. Shawn and Gus exchanged glances. 

“Uh, sorry. What was that?” Gus asked. 

Big Louie shrugged. “I said, he was cursed!”

“Uh-huh,” Shawn nodded. “And by ‘cursed’, do you mean the Cousin Oliver sort of way?”

“No, it was an evil curse. Someone must’ve placed it on him- it’s the only explanation. He angered someone evil. Or some _thing._ ” Louie frowned, his brows furrowing at the thought. 

Louie’s words didn’t sit well with Shawn. “Well… I wouldn’t necessarily call it evil,” Shawn chuckled lightly. “Oliver caused a lot of problems, sure, but it wasn’t his fault he was jinxed. It’s tragic, really.” It was truly sad, Shawn thought, for Jan to appear lucky by comparison. 

“How do you know it wasn’t something else? Maybe it was a coincidence. People have heart attacks all the time. Heart disease is the leading cause of death in the US,” Gus said.

“This wasn’t a coincidence. I could see it in his eyes!” Louie leaned forward, his hands starting to fidget in his lap. “I don’t know who cursed him, or why… But when Leonidas went to check on him, he said there was a dark presence there. And it smelled of sulfur!” 

Shawn paused, as did Gus. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘Leonidas’?” Gus asked with a raised brow. 

“Yeah… Leonidas is our leader. Leonidas Fabri. He’s a sorcerer and the founder of the group. But, anyway, as Matt died, I could smell-”

“I’m sorry,” Shawn cut in, now focused on a more pressing issue. “Leonidas? Really? What, is he some kind of... Pasta brand?”

“Leonidas is Greek, not Italian,” Gus said. 

“Oh, and so they can’t enjoy pasta?” Shawn scoffed.

“They’re completely different countries!”

“Really? Since when?”

“Since the fall of the Roman Empire!”

“When did this happen?”

“You’re not serious.”

“Uh…” Louie muttered, his gaze shifting between them. “So… Anyway-”

“Yes,” Shawn started. “Are there other leaders? Perhaps by the names Franchesco, or Alfredo?”

Gus cleared his throat, the sound exaggerated, as he gave Shawn a look. He smoothly turned to Louie, the embodiment of professionalism. “You were saying something about sulfur?”

“Yes! Matt smelled of sulfur.”

“And… that means…?” Shawn asked.

“Sulfur means something demonic was around! Something evil cursed him. I don’t know who or what… But that’s what happened, I’m sure of it. There’s a demon involved.” Louie grew animated and energized as he spoke, his head bobbing up and down not unlike a buoy off the coast on a windy day. 

Gus cleared this throat, loudly. “Uh, did you say a _demon_ did it?”

Shawn could pick up easily on the hesitant, wary undertone in his friend’s voice. That, and the way he kept glancing towards the door erratically. 

“I think so,” Louie said with a firm nod. “That’s what the clues point to. Demons could be at work… Maybe he did something to anger them?”

Shawn was quick to redirect. “Didn’t you say there was a cursed doll? Christine?”

Louie shook his head. “No… She wasn’t behind it. Not this time. As long as you greet her when you enter the room she’ll leave you alone. And she doesn’t smell like sulfur- that’s a demon thing. Christine is just cursed. But when you can smell sulfur, that’s for sure a demon.”

“Oh,” Gus said, nodding his head stiffly and wearing a rigid, forced smile. “That’s a relief. So it wasn’t the cursed doll. That’s great. Glad to hear it. I sure am glad to know it might be a demon instead.”

“Come on,” Shawn chuckled. He kept a careful eye on Gus, discreetly. “Just because he died suddenly, under suspicious circumstances, and stunk like rotten eggs, doesn’t mean he was killed by a _demon._ Am I right? Louie, am I right?”

Louie shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure it was a demon.”

Shawn’s smirk faded. Gus whimpered. 

“ _Or_ ,” Shawn started again, “he spent a great deal of time around hidden California volcanoes. Possibly wearing feathers, and dancing with Miss Piggy.”

“I… Don’t think that’s it,” Louie said with a frown. 

It was clear to Shawn his strategy was failing, Gus’ anxiety was rising by the minute, and he had about six minutes of questioning time left before his friend made a break for the door. 

“This group… What do you do again?” Shawn asked.

“Well… It’s like I told you,” Louie shrugged. “We’re a group of people with similar interests of the unearthly realm. A place we can talk and connect that’s organized, but we all share the same beliefs.” 

Gus frowned in thought, the gears turning in his head in a way very similar to Shawn’s at that moment. They shared another look, this time with one raised eyebrow each. “Is this a cult?” Gus asked.

“Oh! No, no…” Louie chuckled seemingly at a joke, one that only he seemed to have heard. “We’re not a cult! Just an interest group of like-minded people that meet regularly. With our own secure building.”

“Uh-huh…” Shawn muttered doubtfully while nodding slowly. Gus did the same. 

“And this… group,” Gus started. “Is it exclusive?

“Do you pay dues?” Shawn asked.

“Do you wear special clothes?” Gus asked. 

“Yes… Yes, and sometimes, on special occasions,” Louie said. 

“Right...” Shawn said, stretching and pulling out the word more than was necessary. He shared a disbelieving look with Gus. Then he discreetly lifted a hand towards his face, enough to cover mouthing the words ‘It’s a cult!’ to Gus. Gus nodded without hesitation. They looked back at Louie. 

Louie chatted on, oblivious. “Of course- we have all kinds of members. People with normal daily lives, but with an interest in the otherworldly. We’ve got cooks, teachers, nurses, foreign students- even car enthusiasts. Steve seems to have a different sportscar each week!” 

“And… Where would this group meet?” Gus asked. 

“We have our own building,” Louie said. “Since it’s exclusive. It houses a special collection of mystical artifacts. Those have to be protected, you understand.” 

“Hmm. Of course,” Shawn said. “Could you tell us where we might find this building?”

Louie paused, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I’m sorry… I don’t think I can do that. The location itself is a secret only for members to know. I’d be breaking my Oath of the Crimson Moon if I told someone else where we met. Even someone of the psychic arts. Matt even rode with me blindfolded several times before he was allowed to walk there on his own.”

“Gee. That’s too bad,” Gus said, disappointment absent from his tone.

“Come on, Louie! Big Louie, our good friend,” Shawn started. 

“I’ve only known you for twenty minut-”

“Our friendship doesn’t need pesky things like _time_ to build,” Shawn said with a smile and chuckle as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We’re bounded by the mystic arts. Or ‘Artes de Mystical’, as I sometimes call them. Not to be confused with its cousin, ‘Cirque du Solei’.” He paused in consideration. “Although personally, I prefer Blue Man Group.”

“I’m not sure…” Louie said.

“We don’t need to spend time together to trust one another,” Shawn continued as he leaned forward with a tilt of his head, then with two fingers made the motion for ‘I’m watching you’ directed at Louie. 

Louie stared. They waited.

“No… Sorry, I still can’t give you the location,” Louie said with a wince.

Shawn leaned backward and bit back a frustrated sigh, which was mirrored by Gus. 

“And it’s invite-only. They wouldn’t even let you in if you showed up on your own,” Louie said. “You’d have to be personally invited, or brought along as a guest by a ranked member.”

Gus shot a silent look at Shawn, the kind that warned him not to do something stupid. Shawn saw that look, knew exactly what it meant, and immediately ignored it. “Well, then, I accept your invitation. You’re very kind, Big Louie. I sense a lot of good, positive, energy ions around you.”

“But I-” Louie stopped, blinking. “You do? Really?”

“Haven’t I proven my skills?” Shawn asked.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t doubt you,” Louie said. 

“So, uh,” Gus started, hesitant. “When’s the next meeting?”

“Well, we meet every Tuesday night. If you come by here, we can go together.”

“Yes! But,” Shawn started more soberly than before. “We _will_ need to know where to find it, first. I’d like to do an early psychic pass at it. And to scope out the nearest McDonald’s, in case they bring back the McRib.”

Louie looked at Shawn, a hesitant and worried frown on his face. But then he looked at them again, closer, and found a hidden joke in Shawn’s words that did not exist a second before. The frown was swept away in favor of a small, amused smile, which grew to full-on laughter that rumbled deep in Louie’s chest.

Gus looked at Shawn, who mirrored his own expression of confusion and eventually forced laughter. They smiled awkwardly as they laughed, all taking part in a joke they didn’t understand and knew did not exist. 

“You guys are funny!” Louie said as the laughter died from his lips. “But no, I can’t do that.”

\---

They walked back to the car in silence and took their respective seats. Shawn could sense Gus wasn’t happy with the case.

“I’m not happy with this case, Shawn,” Gus said from the driver’s side.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Shawn said soberly. “It’s very concerning.”

Gus paused, quirking his brow with suspicion. “You do?”

“Of course I do- It’s very alarming. If the meeting is on Tuesday night, then what about Taco Tuesday? The whole thing’s in jeopardy, man!”

“I _meant_ , this guy getting cursed by a demon.” Outwardly, Gus remained serious and unamused, but secretly agreed with Shawn and had grown concerned about their upcoming fiesta of food, and the effect it would have on his taste buds. 

“Come on, Gus! It’s just a bunch of crazy talk-”

“Shawn, we’re dealing with curses and demon magic. I am _not_ getting involved in that. Not without some serious protection.”

“Except none of that is real!” Shawn said, exasperated. “Look- There’s nothing supernatural about any of this, alright? So what if Louie and the victim were part of a cult of people who like magic,” he said. “So what if the murder took place under suspicious circumstances at said cult. But whoever did this isn’t using _magic_. Whoever it was, they tried to dump him at the docks. There’s nothing supernatural about that. That’s just poor planning on the murderer’s part. And a sign of questionable boating standards.” 

“Speaking of suspicious- How do we know we can trust Big Louie? His living room was full of taxidermied heads!”

Shawn thought of the fear and uncertainty the man had shown, and the way he latched onto them out of desperation. He saw it as the crazy sort of crazy, not the scary crazy Gobin King kind. “Louie seems pretty harmless to me. You saw how scared he was,” Shawn said. “That guy’s not magical, he had a replica prop from the Goonies mixed in with his mummified creatures collection. And besides, he gave us a location for the murder.” 

“He gave us _a_ location. We still don’t actually know where the murder took place.”

“So we need to do some digging, first. I’m sure we’ll be able to find it before Tuesday. We’ll scope the place out, find out what we need, then do a reveal for Jules and Lassie.” Shawn waved a hand near his temple for a moment. “Now, will you stop being so superstitious?”

“Call me what you want, but this case is _not_ normal. What if the demons tried to get rid of the body after they killed him?”

“Gus, if it was a curse or a demon, wouldn’t they have a better way of getting rid of the body? They were dragging it to some dingy boat in the middle of the night, not setting it on fire on an altar somewhere.”

Gus shook his head with a resolute grip on the steering wheel. “This isn’t some guy in Santa Barbara out for revenge. We’re talking _demons._ And I’m _not_ going in there without some kind of backup. And no, a fake psychic does _not_ count,” Gus said with finality as he started the car, put it into drive, and drove them away from the house and the many taxidermied heads it contained. 


End file.
